Demons
by Sumiare
Summary: Will's are literal. HIATUS
1. The Beginning

**Title: Demons**

**Author: Sumiare**

**Word Count: 2,000**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Blood, Death and Stags**

**Pairing: Hannigram**

**Notes: I remember sitting up last night talking with my friend Caroline about fanfiction plots and together we fleshed out a Destiel which I'll be writing later. This morning I though of this one, and we both were rather fond of it. Caroline, I dedicate this story to you. This Steak is to Die For. /wink**

**Please leave a review and let me know what you think so far!**

* * *

Will always complained of having his own personal demons. It didn't help that he was constantly psychoanalyzing serial killers, and that those mental forms manifested into hallucinations that haunted his dreams. After a particularly horrifying case – the case of Garrett Jacob Hobbs – these hallucinations became more and more frequent in his waking life instead of just his sleep.

Crawford refused to acknowledge that his best profiler was going insane, continuously placing Will Graham into the mentalities of psychos until he gradually became one. A stag with raven feathers for fur haunted his sights, always somewhere in the background, watching him. Eventually he grew used to the sight of it while he was lying in bed, its antlers coated in the blood of the girls that Hobbs killed, striking their bodies through with pairs of antlers he had stored in the attic of his home. The stag would regard him with a cold gaze, its eyes glittering red as rubies, and then it would turn and leave, as if encouraging him to follow after it. Will never did, though. He could never be sure which level of insanity the deer would lead him to. Perhaps so far he wouldn't be able to return.

Today's case had been particularly exhausting. His mind still buzzed from the thought of it all, the blood spilt on the carpet, so thick that it would never be removed. He had long since tried to take the smell of iron and copper from his nose. It was a permanent thing, and he ignored it. Mentioning the ever-present smell of blood to any of his coworkers would get him recommended to yet another psychiatrist, and he really did not like psychiatrists. They would psychoanalyze the psychoanalyzer, peering into the very throes of his mind and plucking out things that they thought were important, all while ignoring the most important information.

A family had been found dead in their home, their heads shaved and the hair woven to form a work of grotesque art. The tapestry had been nailed to the wall above the bodies, who had been moved to sit underneath it, their glazed eyes to see no more. There had been four deaths, the mother, the father, and their twin girls, who couldn't have been more than eight. Will would have felt sorry for them if he was still capable of doing so.

Crawford coaxed him into slipping into the killer's mindset after clearing the room of all of the paramedics and police. The noise blocked out his mental process, all of the extra chatter would reverse the images and he'd be lost. Plus, Will just preferred his privacy, especially when his mind was so open to other people's thoughts.

"I had been watching the family for weeks now," he mumbled after clearing the scene, setting things right, with his head. The girls were in bed, asleep, their parents cuddled together on the couch, watching some sort of movie on their flatscreen. The kitchen light was off. "They were perfect for my plan."

He crept forward, and slipped through the kitchen window, careful not to make a sound. "I sneak in, ever so quietly. I have all of my tools in a bag – my knife, my razor, my needles to work the piece into its shape. The man and the woman do not hear me creep up behind their couch. I wield my knife, slitting the woman's throat before stabbing the man's neck with clumsy aim."

The blood coated his hands, drying quickly and leaving a maroon stain on his skin. It would wash off, he reasoned. Will reached into the bag that was not his own, and tugged out the razor. It was from the barber's; he had stolen it during his last haircut. They hadn't noticed it was missing.

"I shave the woman's hair off first, I find it much more beautiful, and pile it carefully onto the floor. I was careful not to get any of the blood into the blonde locks lest it ruin my masterpiece." He dropped clump after clump of blonde hair onto the floor, watching it fall and collect together. "When I take the hair of the man, I hear a creak on the stairs. It is one of the daughters, her hands clutched around a stuffed toy that I could not see. She will be my next target."

Will stole through the shadows, reaching through the rungs on the staircase to grab the girl's ankle, sharply pulling her down. Her head clunks heavily onto the railing, and she is killed by the head trauma.

"I pull her off of the stairs, cradling her as if she were my own child. I place her between her parents on the couch before removing her hair as well. It is brown, a lovely chocolate color that compliments the mother's blonde quite nicely. It will all look perfect once I pull everything together."

Will's eyes travel back to the staircase, following the way it curved off into oblivion.

"There is one more kill I must make before I begin my work. The stairs creak quietly as I sneak up them and into the girls' room. One of the beds is empty. I pull back the covers on the occupied bed, and stare down at the sleeping girl there."

She looks angelic lying there in her bed, the sheets tousled around her. They are a pale pink color, matching the walls of the room. Will feels almost regretful slicing a line through the dip of her collarbone, and then up her neck, as if performing throat surgery.

"The fourth kill is finished. I take the final collection of hair downstairs, and begin work on my tapestry. When I finish I hang it on the wall. It looks lovely there."

He stepped back to admire the work he has created. There is a buzzing in his head that does not belong on the scene, and Will ignores it. He turns to the bodies he has arranged on the couch – the mother and father, with their twin daughters placed between them.

"I feel that the owners of the tapestry should sit beneath my masterpiece. I push the couch over to the wall, and create a perfect family portrait."

Will takes a deep breath, and exhales shakily.

"This is my design."

The scene melts back into the state he had walked in on. The bloodied carpet, the family sitting quietly under the tapestry of their hair. He is standing alone in the living area of the house, his hands clutched into fists, fingernails digging into his skin despite the thick latex gloves covering his hands. Through the gloves he can feel his hands are sweaty once again. Will takes another shaky breath. The stag is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. It watches him silently, before trodding past, out the main door, before it slips into the shadows and vanishes into the darkness awaiting.

That was nearly three hours ago. The drive from Baltimore – the site of the murder – to his home in Wolf Trap, Virginia is just over that. He had rushed out of the crime scene as if it were aflame, and drove away like the cops were on his tail. He calmed himself with the thought he just wanted to see his dogs again instead of the truth, that he had a little too much of blood and death and murder and, 'Will, what do you see?'

It is when he pulls off of the freeway into Wolf Trap that he notices something is different. While his town isn't all that populated anyway, there is no one out and about. It is nearly six; many people would usually be out walking their dogs or driving home from work. But it is barren.

Will drives slow through the main area of town before turning onto his street, the gravel crunching under the weight of his tires. There is still no one. Trees thin to yellow grass, and there is not a sound. Not even crickets chirp their song tonight.

There are no strays wandering the streets, there are no sounds distilling the air. Everything seems to be holding its breath, waiting for the break, for the illusion to fall apart. Will continues to drive slowly, eyes scanning for someone, anyone, anything. He'd even appreciate a skunk if it were to walk into the streets and show itself. But there is nothing.

He pulls into his driveway carefully. His house looms over him in all of its disintegrating glory. There are shingles falling off of the roof, and one nearly hits him as he walks up to the front door and unlocks it with his keys, letting himself in. The door creaks, the sound echoing through the empty house. Usually his dogs would be waiting right by the door for him, slobbering excitedly over his hands as he bent to pet each and every one of them. But there is silence, and there are no dogs.

He checks every room for them. Usually if they weren't by the door they'd be in the kitchen waiting for their dinner. But they aren't there, and the only sign they'd ever been was the spilled container of dog food, kernels contaminating the off-white tile floor. Will stoops to pick up the plastic container and set it on the counter by the sink. He'd have to scoop up all of the spilled pellets later when he had a dustpan. Right now his priority was figuring out what was happening in Wolf Trap.

Will takes a breath before walking upstairs to inspect there. Nothing has changed since he left this morning. The sheets on his bed are still a mess (he had long since abandoned his duvet, it just made him sweat even more), his pillows falling off of the bed. The lamp on the bedside table doesn't work, and the windows are closed. There is nothing on the roof outside other than an unfortunate collection of bird poop.

He is stumped, for once. It seems as if everything living has run from the town into the wilderness. What could have happened while he was gone?

It is that moment that the doorbell downstairs rings, an echoing, haunting noise that rattles Will's bones after several minutes of absolute silence, other than his breathing. His footfalls on the wood echo through the house alongside the ringing of the doorbell. He hesitates to open the door to whomever – whatever – may be standing outside there. He doesn't have a peephole or a mail slot to spy on his visitor prior to yanking open the door to stare them in the face. It could be someone dangerous, it usually was, and Will didn't keep a gun on him unless he was working. But he was off the clock and he didn't have a gun in the house and oh god he was freaking out now, nearly hyperventilating.

Calm down, Will, he told himself, removing his hand from the doorknob to clutch at himself. He counted down from ten, slowly, while the person on the other side of the door rang the bell several more times. Once he reached one he grasped the cool bronze knob in his hand and turned it slowly, pulling the door open ever so slightly to peer outside. He saw no one for a heartbeat.

A face suddenly pushed into view, eyes wide with – was that fear? Will pulled the door open fully to stare confusedly at his visitor. The man had flaxen hair – which, somehow, was perfectly styled after it seemed as if he had been running – and wore a three-piece suit that didn't really fit the atmosphere of the man's expression. The stag was standing behind him, watching Will with calculating red eyes.

"Thank god you're here, Will Graham. We are in much danger," the man gasped, his accent sounding rather foreign, the way he pronounced his words was smoother, longer. "We need to run."


	2. And We're Walking

**Title: Demons**

**Author: Sumiare**

**Word Count: 2,001**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Blood, Violence, and Jacket Abuse**

**Pairing: Hannigram**

**Notes: Caroline and I bounced ideas back and forth while I was driving back from New York. It was a very long drive, and I wrote nearly 1,600 words on my phone alone. Now I am home and I have showered and I feel loads better. Also we have worked out an ending, but I also noticed that there won't be too much romance in this. I will probably imply but I won't go too far into details, unfortunately. There is no easy way of blending that genre into this story. :(**

**Please let me know what you think! :D**

* * *

Will stared for a moment, disbelieving. The man outside was still panting. Will opened his mouth as if to say something, and a strangled sort of noise comes out before he simply says, "No," and shuts the door.

He stood there at the door a moment, before hearing a soft sound at the top of the stairs. There, at the top, was the flaxen-haired man, looking rather much cleaner than he had outside.

"William, I really must insist we go," he said calmly.

Will nearly leapt ten feet into the air with surprise. He immediately armed himself – police instincts, he guessed – with the nearest usable weapon – a ballpoint pen.

"How did you get in?!" he bellowed, more surprised than afraid. The man waltzed gracefully down the stairs with the air of a royal and with nearly inhuman strength tossed Will over his shoulder, moving towards the door.

"A man must have his secrets, William," the man answered, the smirk in his voice evident.

Will stabbed his back with the pen.

The man wasn't fazed, rather, he just continued, "It really is dangerous for you to remain here. I know a place for us to hide until it is safe."

"You didn't have to pick me up," Will grumbled. "I can walk."

"I feared you may resist," the man answered with a chuckle. "I will let you down once we are a fair distance from your dwelling."

"That's stupid," Will mumbled, but resigned himself to be carried the next half-mile.

* * *

During the walk downtown (after Will was set down, of course) Will learned that his new companion was called Hannibal Lecter, and that he was originally from Lithuania, and that he was a former trauma doctor. He claimed that he was in Wolf Trap visiting relatives, although Will wasn't quite sure he completely believed him. He wasn't even sure _why _he was tailing after this Lecter guy like one of his dogs after a day alone.

(He ended up blaming it on his looming insanity.)

Strangely enough the raven stag didn't join the duo on their trip to the main part of the city. For this Will was certainly thankful, he wasn't sure how exactly he'd explain why he was staring backwards at something that wasn't there. Most people didn't react positively to hallucinations.

(Unless they were high.)

(But that wasn't likely.)

Mostly they made idle small talk while they walked. Endless miles of gravel and grass stretched on and on so they talked about the weather, about their families. Will told Hannibal about how his father used to take him fishing, and Hannibal told Will about his younger sister, Mischa, who died young due to a gruesome disease. Hannibal didn't elaborate on the exact circumstances of Mischa's death, and Will was grateful for that. He really didn't need any extra images to haunt his waking hours. But for the rest of the walk they were silent, other than the tapping of shoes and the crunch of gravel. Still no crickets chirped.

* * *

It was dark by the time they reached the plaza, and Will's legs were aching. He collapsed onto the nearest bench when he found one and sat there panting as if he'd run a marathon. Hannibal seemed fine, though, his breathing regular. Perhaps he ran on a normal basis, so much that this type of exercise wasn't strenuous to him.

"We need to keep moving, Will," Hannibal advised.

"Tell that to my legs," Will gasped.

They took another moment as Will forced himself to stand, and they slowly drifted down the square to give Will's muscles more time to adjust to the work. Some of the shop windows had been broken, glass scattered in large shards across the ground. When Will's eyes drifted to the dark sky, he was able to make out a cloud of dark smoke funnel down into something just around the corner. Curious, he forced his legs into motion to see, and was surprised to spot his mailman standing there, looking rather lost.

"Hey!" he called, beginning to walk over to the uniformed man. "What's going on, here?"

"Will, I really must advise you not to-"

Hannibal's words were cut off by a low, feral growl. Will froze as the mailman leapt at him, eyes black as if his pupils had taken over the entirety of his eyeballs. Will was pushed roughly to the ground, and he heard the scraping of skin on asphalt when he landed.

"Will Graham, huh?" The mailman hummed with a voice that was not his own, moving to pin Will to the road. He leaned over Will, a terrifying grin stretched on his face. Will could hear his heart pounding, thudding frantically in his ears and when the mailman's grin widened he was sure it was not him alone that could hear the _ba-dum, ba-dum _of his heartbeat.

"I hear it," the mailman confirmed quietly. "Your heart." Fingernails slid up the flannel of Will's shirt. "You know what I'm going to do, yes? You can see into my head…" The hand tightened on Will's chest over his heart, and he could feel it skip several beats in fear. Will was flung into the mailman's mind, and he could see.

He wished he couldn't.

The monster's mind was dripping black and red, oozing out of every crevice in the ground, every crack in the road. He watched the man dig an inhumanly strong hand into him, pressing hard past the flesh, past his ribs, and withdraw his heart, still thumping wildly. Blood spilled out of the hole in his chest, and mixed with the red already coating the ground.

Horrified he blinked furiously, pulling himself out. The black stag stood over him, behind the mailman, watching him silently with intelligent red eyes.

"Please, don't," he found himself begging. The mailman tutted disapprovingly, placing more pressure onto his hand, onto Will's chest. His heartbeat quickened.

"Don't worry," he was told in a soft, reassuring tone. "It will all be over soon."

Will braced himself for the inevitable pain, squeezing his eyes shut and turning away his face so that he couldn't smell his own blood. But the gush, the sting – it never came.

Confused he cracked open his eyes to find out what had happened, why that image didn't reveal itself to be true in front of him. He blinked once. And again.

Hannibal Lecter, the man in the three-piece suit, was holding the mailman by the collar of his shirt with a single hand. The mailman was struggling, flailing out, but none of it effected Will's companion.

Hannibal tossed him aside, and watched him slump to the ground before helping Will to his feet.

"Wha-what-" he gasped, feeling lightheaded. Hannibal didn't answer. The taller man strode over to the collapsed mailman, who was struggling to his feet, and withdrew a knife from his pocket – a jagged, small thing with a wooden handle – burying it into the back of Will's attacker with a sharp, quick motion. There was a flash of flickering, pale light that was emitted from the wound, and then Hannibal withdrew the knife and wiped the liquid coating it onto the cloth of the mailman's shirt.

Blood (red, which seemed to surprise Will) seeped out of the gash and soaked into the blue of the mail uniform, staining it a sickly color.

"How did you- What was that!?" Will babbled disbelievingly when Hannibal rejoined him. The Lithuanian pocketed the knife, which was now clean, and turned to study Will with intelligent eyes.

"What do you think it was?" Hannibal answered the question with a question.

Will was quiet a moment before he whispered, "A monster."

Hannibal thought silently. "Close enough, I suppose," he decided finally. "Come along, Graham, we must continue moving or we will be attacked again. Remind me to get you a weapon."

Will stared at him. "You aren't going to tell me what tha-that _thing _was?"

"I feel your speculation will suffice," Hannibal answered calmly.

Will felt annoyance bubble up from within him. "Tell me," he started, anger radiating from his voice. "Tell me what it was!"

In his quick fit of anger he had reached up to tug on Hannibal's suit jacket.

The taller man froze, and turned ever so slowly to stare down Will with a gaze more frightening than Will had seen on the mailman. "Let go of my suit, William," his voice sounded calm, but he wore an expression that showed he clearly wasn't. "It is brand new. I will tell you the truth once we reach safety. Merely saying the name entices them to attack."

Will let go of the jacket.

* * *

"How much further do we have to walk to reach this 'safety' you keep mentioning?" Will asked, his voice still tinged with leftover anger, but it mostly implied curiosity.

"I'd say another mile or two," Hannibal decided after a moment of eyeing the route ahead of them. "And I believe it's called a bunker. I found it while hunting in the woods on the edge of town," he explained after a moment of quiet.

Will knew where it was. It was built into the ground as a shelter from god-knows-what. He had gone in, once, but that place was covered in spiderwebs and just generally gave him the creeps. So he turned and left. It was comical the way he had taken a single step inside, saw the interior, and did a swift turn and walked right out of there.

"Was it still bathing in cobwebs?" Will asked as they kept walking. The gravel had become asphalt here. Hannibal laughed.

"I cleaned up when I first went in. I figured all of those cobwebs couldn't be good for its structure, nor would any guest find them appealing."

Will nodded, relieved. He would've hated to live in a bunker filled with the corpses of spiders and cobwebs strewn across the ceilings and corners. He wasn't a fan of bugs anyway, but spiders sure took the cake for "worst thing ever." Right next to mosquitoes, that is. Those little bloodsuckers loved Will and he was always in possession of some sort of itch somewhere on his body.

The rest of the walk to the bunker seemed to fly by, being that it was only about a half an hour, give or take, to walk the next mile and a half. Once they reached the trapdoor Will nearly screamed in relief. His legs were killing him and he really wanted to sleep.

Hannibal pulled open the door after unlocking it with a key that wasn't needed prior, and Will crawled down into it, and tugged on the lights, which were strung to the ceiling with string. Hannibal was right, it was cleaner. The cobwebs had been dusted off of the ceiling, and furniture had been set around an old coffee table decorated with coasters. The kitchen seemed to be stocked for several weeks' worth of food, and there were several ration packs hidden in one of the cupboards. The smell, however, was something to be reckoned with, and dust took every opportunity to make the criminal profiler sneeze.

"Where are the beds?" he asked as Hannibal dug around in a chest of sorts for a weapon to give Will. He withdrew a gun, with bullets that Will didn't recognize, and a second dagger that matched his own. He handed both to Will, and hesitantly he took them.

"The rooms are adjacent, down the hall to the left and the right," Hannibal informed him, and Will immediately went to seek refuge in the room he deemed his own. (He chose the left one.)

He was careful to make sure the gun's safety was on before placing it and the dagger on the rickety wooden night stand, and proceeded to collapse, exhausted, onto the bed without even attempting to cover himself with the thin blue sheets tucked neatly under the mattress.

Will slept surprisingly well that night.

Hannibal did not sleep at all.


	3. When Morning Calls

**Title: Demons**

**Author: Sumiare**

**Word Count: 1,895**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Descriptive food porn.**

**Pairing: Hannigram**

**Notes: This chapter is short and fillery. I leave for camp (two weeks of no internet, sob) on Sunday, and I felt obligated to squeeze out this chapter before I leave. Hopefully I can plan and write some chapters while I'm there, but there are no promises, sorry! I'm sure I'll have fun anyway, and it's likely I'll sit on a bench during free hour and draw fanart. But please enjoy, and make sure to leave a review! :D**

* * *

When morning came, Will woke to the smell of eggs and bacon. It was disorienting to wake in a room that was not his own, in a bed that was far from comfortable. Surprisingly enough his nightmares did not stray into the gruesome murder he had witnessed the day prior, and he was able to sleep for four hours before coming to drenched in sweat. He took a shower at three in the morning and then returned to his bed, preferring to sleep between two dry towels than under the covers on the sheets.

He blinked several times before sitting up. The hot air stirred around him, and he made a mental note to ask Hannibal about getting some sort of fan for his room. It would certainly help - underground bunkers weren't exactly known for their well-made cooling systems. As Will rolled out of bed he noticed a fresh set of clothes set out for him on the tiny dresser that decorated the cramped room. Seemed like at some point during the night Hannibal had found the time to skip back to Will's house and snatch his entire wardrobe, stuffing it neatly into the dresser back at the bunker. He changed quickly, thankful to be out of the sweaty clothes he slept in and in a fresh set that didn't smell like salt and pain. During his change of clothes he noted that Hannibal had, in fact, sorted and folded his entire collection of briefs, and pushed down any sort of analogy his brain made to a hormonal teenager going on a panty raid.

(Will tried hard not to associate his underwear with what would be found on a panty raid, and failed miserably. He blushed there alone in his room for nearly five minutes.)

When he was finished he headed into the main room, and was vaguely surprised to see the squat coffee table decorated nicely for breakfast. There was a bouquet of wildflowers set in the middle of the placing, placemats that more resembled doilies than the placemats Will was in possession of back home, plates from who-knows-where covered in rather delicious-looking bacon, eggs, and a sort of salad-thing that Will didn't recognize. There were chairs that are far too tall for the table set around it, and glasses filled three-quarters of the way with what looked to be a power shake. (Will often spiked his morning drinks with those five hour energy packets when he didn't have access to strong coffee. He could recognize a power shake when he saw one.)

"Ah, good morning, Will," greeted Hannibal easily once he noticed the brunet had joined him in the main block. "As you can see, I made breakfast. Please, do enjoy." Will blinked at him skeptically, vaguely wondering where he had gotten all of these decorative things, but picked up his fork anyway and set to work on the eggs. They were expertly made, soft and succulent, cooked just enough so as to elevate their flavor while not burning them to black charcoal.

While Will scarfed down the eggs Hannibal had joined him, a glass of grape juice nestled in the crook of his bent hand. The older man sat down across from Will, watching him quietly as he ate for a moment before starting on his own meal. Hannibal took great care in the way he ate, almost as if he were out to impress, what with his excellent posture and perfect manners.

"This is good," complimented Will once he slowed down enough to speak. He abandoned his fork to pick up the bacon between curled fingers and experimentally bite it sharply with his front teeth. It was tangy, as if it had been cooked in a glaze, but once he made it past the first layer of the meat the true flavor burst like a firework on his tongue. The smell alone was amazing, but with the taste it took Will to a new level of heaven. It had a strong, distinctive flavor that Will had known nearly all his life and could identify blindfolded. It crunched perfectly under the pressure of his teeth, and it took the profiler no time at all to finish the several pieces he had on his plate.

"After this I will need to inform you thoroughly on the enemy we face," Hannibal said suddenly as Will slurped down the last of his power shake. The other man had also finished his meal, despite in a less noisy fashion that Will had taken on. The brunet set down his empty glass and looked at his companion.

"Yeah, didn't you say you were going to tell me what that thing was?"

"Indeed."

Will looked at Hannibal in anticipation, feeling his nerves brace as if he were about to burst onto a crime scene in progress. "Well?" He urged. "What was it? Err, him?"

"He," Hannibal began, his voice taking on a rather grave undertone, "was a demon."

Will stared at him. "A demon." He repeated. The word echoed aimlessly in his head, not clicking to the monster he had seen the night prior.

"Essentially, they are a human who spent long being squeezed like a rock in Hell, and become dark, warped things that developed a taste for blood and murder." Hannibal offered.

"No, seriously," Will answered finally. "What was it?"

Hannibal seemed vaguely put off. "Will, I have told you the truth. They are creatures of demonic origin set upon your town for some reason we do not know. However, if we're to drive them out, I must teach you to fight them. Do you still have the gun and the knife?"

"They're in my room," Will supplied, surprised.

"If you would, please fetch them and meet me in the room down the hallway. There is a cartridge of silver bullets in your desk drawer. Replace the bullets in the gun with those, please." The Lithuanian instructed briskly, standing and taking the dishes to the sink to be washed.

Will found himself nodding, although he wasn't too sure on what made him believe this man. Demons were storybook villains, not creatures roaming the streets whilst borrowing bodies for their personal use. Will was never very religious, either, and never worried about the simple idea of demons or demonic possession.

He stood, walking back into his room where he unloaded the gun and reloaded it with the pack of silver bullets Hannibal had pointed out, and clicking the safety on before shoving it into his pocket. He had a gun holster back home from his days as a cop, but he wasn't home, was he?

Once the gun was set he picked up the knife. It had strange markings on the blade in a language he could not read. The tip was curved slightly, and the edges serrated in large jagged spikes until the blade met with the mahogany handle. It was firm, and fit well in his hand. He twisted it experimentally before that, too, was buried in one of his many pockets.

Hannibal was waiting for him in the back room. It was large and unfurnished, with walls that looked like they were built out of metal. The floors were stone, albeit small amounts of it. Near the edges where floor met wall dirt and roots peeked through the gaps. There was a long table, along with a target pasted to the back wall. Two pairs of headphones and protective glasses sat on the table next to a second cartridge of bullets.

"I brought the gun, and the knife," Will said upon entering, withdrawing both to show Hannibal. The older man nodding approvingly, taking the gun from his companion's hands and placing it on the table.

"We'll be starting with the knife today, seeing as you already have experience with guns," Hannibal started. "The first step to fighting with a dagger is to know it."

He took the knife from Will after a moment, and turned it gently in his hands. "This specific knife was forged by a group of Kurdish people specifically for killing demons. It kills with a single stab to a vital area, such as the heart or brain." He ran a finger down the blade, over the impressed symbols on the metal. "We are still not sure what it reads on the knife itself, but it does its job without us knowing."

He handed the knife back to Will.

"Hold it, make sure it's balanced, where it's most comfortable to hold it."

Will twisted the blade in his hand until his fingers settled into the grip, adjusting to suit the light weight of the knife. He rather liked how it felt in his hand, in some strange way.

"Alright," Hannibal continued once he noticed Will had adjusted to the feel of the weapon. "The key to fighting with a knife is predicting where your enemy is going to be. Try it on me, with this wooden version," he passed Will a dull wooden knife, so that they wouldn't hurt each other during practice.

Will understood the need for the wooden version, even if he was sure to get splinters from the ragged handle of the 'knife.' After a moment of thought, he stepped into battle, and thus began the practice.

Three hours later, Hannibal decided that Will was passable with a knife. He wasn't the best, the way he aimed was clumsy and off, but with enough practice anyone would be good at it. Will was tired and sweaty and he wanted another shower, but when he voiced this request Hannibal advised him not to, they had limited resources and if they ran out of water they'd have to go search for more.

Grumbling Will accepted this, he wasn't exactly eager to go back above ground when those things were still lurking. When he inquired as to where they had come from, Hannibal had simply shrugged, not knowing. Will wasn't sure if he believed him or not, the way the other man acted it seemed rather obvious he was hiding something. But still, he was the reason Will was still alive, so part of him had to trust the psychiatrist.

He collected the gun (which he was significantly better with, despite his bad shoulder) and the knife, as well as the extra cartridge of bullets, and brought them back into his room. He wished he had brought a book or something to keep himself entertained for the length of time they'd be spending underneath here. Maybe he could help with lunch, anything. If he wasn't occupied it was likely he'd just drift off into one of his mindspaces, which Will sincerely did not want to happen. That would be terribly difficult to explain, nor did he know the actions his body would take while in the mindspace.

So the special agent sat in his bed, which creaked with every movement, and clicked on and off the safety of his gun, pretending to fire, and then placing it back on his bedside table. He went through his clothes, sorted them by color, and put them back in the drawers. He cleaned their bathroom with the small amount of cleaning supplies they possessed, and then was back in his room, pretending to fire a gun at the wall.

This, Will decided, was going to be an excruciatingly long and boring experience.


	4. We All Hear the Thunder Now

**Title: Demons**

**Author: Sumiare**

**Word Count: 1,251**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Tread lightly, for here be glass**

**Pairing: Hannigram**

**Notes: ****Okay, so I said I'd be gone for two weeks. Instead I was gone for three. I apologize. I wasn't able to get much writing done at camp, I had several major anxiety attacks and migraines that completely blocked my inspiration, plus every time I tried to write people would be like, "Oh my gosh, you're writing a story? Can I read it?" Hard to explain I'm writing fanfiction for a show about a serial killer and his encephalitis-riddled b-frond. When I got home we figured out I had an allergic reaction to penicillin (weird rash..!) and then on Tuesday my little sister was admitted into the hospital. She was in ICU until friday, and was returned home on Saturday. A lot has happened recently, but I should be getting back on track soon! I think there are like two to three chapters left til the finish...but bear with me if I'm wrong. I felt obligated to produce a chapter while I have time before vanishing unexpectedly again. I start school in about two weeks, so that will snap my free time into thirds.**

**This one will probably be short (as I type this with the chapter mostly finished and less than 2000 words), and I apologize! Please enjoy anyway, and let me know what you think!**

* * *

Will wasn't keeping track of time anymore, but he figured a few weeks had passed since they first started dwelling in the bunker. Occasionally Hannibal would venture out into the open to restock on supplies, but whenever Will suggested he come along, too, Hannibal would insist upon his staying underground.

"For your safety," Hannibal had reasoned before vanishing for several hours. He'd return with grocery bags full of unpackaged meats and vegetables, stolen from the already trashed grocery just down the street. The older man never showed any signs of wear and tear, nor of any sort of attack by the demons still overrunning the town. Sometimes he'd have a scratch or two carved into his arm, but they never seemed to sway Hannibal.

At one point Hannibal had returned with a particularly bad wound, and Will had immediately stood from his spot slouched on the rugged green couch Hannibal had scavenged from the junkyard (the special agent had reacted rather oddly when the Lithuanian returned from an outing with several pieces of a couch, but Hannibal reasoned that it was more comfortable than the wobbly table chairs they had been using for leisure, and Will couldn't argue) and moved to grab the First Aid kit they kept under the sink. He returned with a pack of Neosporin, cotton swabs and a bandage, but Hannibal had waved him off.

"I'll be fine, save those for more drastic wounds," the older man had said with a dismissing wave. Will shook his head stubbornly, creeping closer with his weapons of mass healing. Before Hannibal could argue Will was cleaning out the wound, staining the swabs a rusty sort of red color, and pressing the neosporin against the cut before wrapping it tightly with the bandage.

"It'll get infected, and that is seriously no fun," Will finished, pinning the bandage in place with a metal clip. Hannibal looked as if he were to argue, but Will fixed him with such a sharp stare that the words died on his lips before they could breach the air.

Since then Hannibal seemed to have taken extra care not to get hurt whilst scavenging, and despite this extra precaution still managed to bring back large amounts of supplies - clothes, water, food. With the increasing amount of supplies Hannibal returned with, Will realized he was finding himself more and more guilty for not assisting in his efforts.

Finally the special agent could not stand idly by.

The next time Hannibal informed his companion that he'd be heading outside that afternoon, Will demanded he attend as well.

"Please," Will begged, already equipped for the trip, gun loaded in his pocket, knife tucked into the curve of his hand. "I feel like such a burden just sitting here reading magazines from months ago."

Hannibal seemed to consider this. It would be rather handy to have Will nearby if he were to be ambushed. The special agent was very good with a gun and despite his natural clumsiness he was able to handle the dagger rather well. (Evidence of this were the hacked apart scarecrows in the empty room, straw sprayed like blood across the bare floors, sightless eyes gazing vacantly forward, never t-)

"Alright," he said, finally.

Will seemed rather surprised. "Really?" he asked skeptically.

"I suppose it would be useful to have extra hands to carry things back," Hannibal elaborated in a gentle tone, not seeking any offense.

The brunet nodded after a moment's hesitation. "Then let's get going. It'll be dark, soon," he guessed.

The pair clambered out of the bunker, covering the trapdoor behind them with a blanket of leaves set aside seemingly for that simple purpose. It took about a half an hour to trek the mile back to the plaza part of town.

Somehow Will wasn't surprised to see the spray of glass across the walkways, hindering their easily walking to the store Hannibal usually got their supplies from. They maneuvered the sharp maze of enormous glass shards, stepping carefully as if they were truly stepping on eggshells, or not wanting to wake the sleeping beast as they crept through the cave towards the treasure at the other end. There was a stop sign bent drastically downwards,

doʇs,

the metal of the pole in a perfect u-shape. It was rather distracting, and Will had to tear his eyes away when he heard a short bark of Hannibal's voice vying for his attention.

"Careful, Will," Hannibal called. "This glass could easily pierce through shoes if at the right angle, and I'm sure neither of us want to be picking glass out of our feet tonight."

Will nodded quickly in understanding, focusing his attention back to the pavement as they neared the end of the spread of glass shards. When Will reached the other end he sighed in relief, glad that he hadn't stepped on any of the dangerous substances polluting the asphalt of the road. Hannibal followed soon after, rejoining his companion and pointing hi in the direction that they would need to travel.

As they continued on, Will felt the increasing sensation that he was being watched. He glanced behind him - once, twice - but found nothing out of the ordinary on the road already traveled. They neared the grocery - its windows shattered like the rest of the stores, the neon of its sign blinking on and off as if it were low on batteries - and were about to enter when the quiet tapping of feet on the pavement, and whipped around to spy several demons advancing surreptitiously behind them.

"Hannibal-" Will managed to say, drawing his gun, before the enemy realized they had been spotted and sped their gait, attacking before Will could even blink.

He was knocked to the ground, gun spiraling out of his reach, two demons standing above him. They were both women of business profession, one was wearing a fitted button-down blouse and a black pencil skirt, the other a tailored suit with a high, neat bun. The first woman, her red hair draped over her shoulder like a curtain, was digging her manicured nails into Will's arm, a belittling grin spread across her warped face, eyes still black as night.

"Well, well," whispered the other woman, pristine white teeth peeking out from cherry red lips as her face split into a knowing smirk. "Will Graham. We were wondering when we'd see you out and about." She jerked a thumb towards Hannibal, who was busy tussling with several other demons. "He's always alone, and yet we knew he was harboring your sweet little ass somewhere."

She drew a hand across Will's face, and the agent lunged to bite her. Unfortunately, the she-demon was too quick, and she withdrew, tutting quietly. "Silly boy. You think you can fight?" She shook her head, pressing her hand back to the brunet's face but digging her own fingernails into the skin she found there. "Because you can't."

The she-demon breathed outwards onto Will, and a stench like rotten eggs swelled in the agent's nose. In his mind's eye he could see two outcomes - the rolling of black smoke out of the she-demon, flowing into his mouth like an intake of breath, his eyes going black, his mind lost - as well as the women digging their fingernails so deeply into him and then carving shapes into his body until he ran out of blood to pump.

"Now," the redhead mumbled, taking over for her partner. "Let's get started."


End file.
